Chapter XX

My father was seated in my room in his dressing-gown; he was writing,

and I saw at once, by the way in which he raised his eyes to me when I

came in, that there was going to be a serious discussion. I went up to

him, all the same, as if I had seen nothing in his face, embraced him,

and said:

“When did you come, father?”

“Last night.”

“Did you come straight here, as usual?”

“Yes.”

“I am very sorry not to have been here to receive you.”

I expected that the sermon which my father’s cold face threatened would

begin at once; but he said nothing, sealed the letter which he had just

written, and gave it to Joseph to post.

When we were alone, my father rose, and leaning against the

mantel-piece, said to me:

“My dear Armand, we have serious matters to discuss.”

“I am listening, father.”

“You promise me to be frank?”

“Am I not accustomed to be so?”

“Is it not true that you are living with a woman called Marguerite

Gautier?”

“Yes.”

“Do you know what this woman was?”

“A kept woman.”

“And it is for her that you have forgotten to come and see your sister

and me this year?”

“Yes, father, I admit it.”

“You are very much in love with this woman?”

“You see it, father, since she has made me fail in duty toward you, for

which I humbly ask your forgiveness to-day.”

My father, no doubt, was not expecting such categorical answers, for he

seemed to reflect a moment, and then said to me:

“You have, of course, realized that you can not always live like that?”

“I fear so, father, but I have not realized it.”

“But you must realize,” continued my father, in a dryer tone, “that I,

at all events, should not permit it.”

“I have said to myself that as long as I did nothing contrary to the

respect which I owe to the traditional probity of the family I could

live as I am living, and this has reassured me somewhat in regard to

the fears I have had.”

Passions are formidable enemies to sentiment. I was prepared for every

struggle, even with my father, in order that I might keep Marguerite.

“Then, the moment is come when you must live otherwise.”

“Why, father?”

“Because you are doing things which outrage the respect that you

imagine you have for your family.”

“I don’t follow your meaning.”

“I will explain it to you. Have a mistress if you will; pay her as a

man of honour is bound to pay the woman whom he keeps, by all means;

but that you should come to forget the most sacred things for her, that

you should let the report of your scandalous life reach my quiet

countryside, and set a blot on the honourable name that I have given

you, it can not, it shall not be.”

“Permit me to tell you, father, that those who have given you

information about me have been ill-informed. I am the lover of Mlle.

Gautier; I live with her; it is the most natural thing in the world. I

do not give Mlle. Gautier the name you have given me; I spend on her

account what my means allow me to spend; I have no debts; and, in

short, I am not in a position which authorizes a father to say to his

son what you have just said to me.”

“A father is always authorized to rescue his son out of evil paths. You

have not done any harm yet, but you will do it.”

“Father!”

“Sir, I know more of life than you do. There are no entirely pure

sentiments except in perfectly chaste women. Every Manon can have her

own Des Grieux, and times are changed. It would be useless for the

world to grow older if it did not correct its ways. You will leave your

mistress.”

“I am very sorry to disobey you, father, but it is impossible.”

“I will compel you to do so.”

“Unfortunately, father, there no longer exists a Sainte Marguerite to

which courtesans can be sent, and, even if there were, I would follow

Mlle. Gautier if you succeeded in having her sent there. What would you

have? Perhaps I am in the wrong, but I can only be happy as long as I

am the lover of this woman.”

“Come, Armand, open your eyes. Recognise that it is your father who

speaks to you, your father who has always loved you, and who only

desires your happiness. Is it honourable for you to live like husband

and wife with a woman whom everybody has had?”

“What does it matter, father, if no one will any more? What does it

matter, if this woman loves me, if her whole life is changed through

the love which she has for me and the love which I have for her? What

does it matter, if she has become a different woman?”

“Do you think, then, sir, that the mission of a man of honour is to go

about converting lost women? Do you think that God has given such a

grotesque aim to life, and that the heart should have any room for

enthusiasm of that kind? What will be the end of this marvellous cure,

and what will you think of what you are saying to-day by the time you

are forty? You will laugh at this love of yours, if you can still

laugh, and if it has not left too serious a trace in your past. What

would you be now if your father had had your ideas and had given up his

life to every impulse of this kind, instead of rooting himself firmly

in convictions of honour and steadfastness? Think it over, Armand, and

do not talk any more such absurdities. Come, leave this woman; your

father entreats you.”

I answered nothing.

“Armand,” continued my father, “in the name of your sainted mother,

abandon this life, which you will forget more easily than you think.

You are tied to it by an impossible theory. You are twenty-four; think

of the future. You can not always love this woman, who also can not

always love you. You both exaggerate your love. You put an end to your

whole career. One step further, and you will no longer be able to leave

the path you have chosen, and you will suffer all your life for what

you have done in your youth. Leave Paris. Come and stay for a month or

two with your sister and me. Rest in our quiet family affection will

soon heal you of this fever, for it is nothing else. Meanwhile, your

mistress will console herself; she will take another lover; and when

you see what it is for which you have all but broken with your father,

and all but lost his love, you will tell me that I have done well to

come and seek you out, and you will thank me for it. Come, you will go

with me, Armand, will you not?” I felt that my father would be right if

it had been any other woman, but I was convinced that he was wrong with

regard to Marguerite. Nevertheless, the tone in which he said these

last words was so kind, so appealing, that I dared not answer.

“Well?” said he in a trembling voice.

“Well, father, I can promise nothing,” I said at last; “what you ask of

me is beyond my power. Believe me,” I continued, seeing him make an

impatient movement, “you exaggerate the effects of this liaison.

Marguerite is a different kind of a woman from what you think. This

love, far from leading me astray, is capable, on the contrary, of

setting me in the right direction. Love always makes a man better, no

matter what woman inspires it. If you knew Marguerite, you would

understand that I am in no danger. She is as noble as the noblest of

women. There is as much disinterestedness in her as there is cupidity

in others.”

“All of which does not prevent her from accepting the whole of your

fortune, for the sixty thousand francs which come to you from your

mother, and which you are giving her, are, understand me well, your

whole fortune.”

My father had probably kept this peroration and this threat for the

last stroke. I was firmer before these threats than before his

entreaties.

“Who told you that I was handing this sum to her?” I asked.

“My solicitor. Could an honest man carry out such a procedure without

warning me? Well, it is to prevent you from ruining yourself for a

prostitute that I am now in Paris. Your mother, when she died, left you

enough to live on respectably, and not to squander on your mistresses.”

“I swear to you, father, that Marguerite knew nothing of this

transfer.”

“Why, then, do you make it?”

“Because Marguerite, the woman you calumniate, and whom you wish me to

abandon, is sacrificing all that she possesses in order to live with

me.”

“And you accept this sacrifice? What sort of a man are you, sir, to

allow Mlle. Gautier to sacrifice anything for you? Come, enough of

this. You will leave this woman. Just now I begged you; now I command

you. I will have no such scandalous doings in my family. Pack up your

things and get ready to come with me.”

“Pardon me, father,” I said, “but I shall not come.”

“And why?”

“Because I am at an age when no one any longer obeys a command.”

My father turned pale at my answer.

“Very well, sir,” he said, “I know what remains to be done.”

He rang and Joseph appeared.

“Have my things taken to the Hotel de Paris,” he said to my servant.

And thereupon he went to his room and finished dressing. When he

returned, I went up to him.

“Promise me, father,” I said, “that you will do nothing to give

Marguerite pain?”

My father stopped, looked at me disdainfully, and contented himself

with saying, “I believe you are mad.” After this he went out, shutting

the door violently after him.

I went downstairs, took a cab, and returned to Bougival.

Marguerite was waiting for me at the window.